Chapter 18 Walls
Walls
The following Monday found Penelope hunched over her desk at home. Working remotely had never been more welcome, given her unsettled state of mind. She’d spaced out while making tea, lifting her mug to her lips only for the tea bag to slap her mouth—she hadn’t even poured the water.
Now, with steam finally curling from the cup, she wrapped her fingers around it, as if it could anchor her. She settled in front of her computer, opening her calendar and staring at all the tasks she still needed to accomplish this week.
The living room was cluttered in a way her office never allowed: folders abandoned on the couch, an empty yogurt cup on the side table, and the faint buzz of her old ceiling fan overhead.
Just looking at the mess sparked an irrational urge to abandon the week entirely.
She forced herself to work on her inbox. Emma alone had sent her five emails detailing various ball-related crises. Montgomery wanted another meeting the next time Penelope was at the Meridian, and there were several new requests from other galleries.
One email asked about the painting she’d shown Lucia. And just like that, her mind returned to the night before—to the balcony, then further back, to Lucia’s first approach after her lecture.
Who’d have thought this one moment would send such unexpected ripples through her life? Or prove so dangerous: a museum curator falling for a forger ten years younger.
Penelope didn’t have a reckless bone in her body—or so she’d thought.
Then she had kissed Lucia. God. If it had happened at the studio, they’d have ended up in that bedroom in a flash.
The thought of Lucia and her entangled in bed left her breathless and flushed with heat. She needed to get a grip. Attraction didn’t dictate action. And with so many threads hanging in the balance, ready to unravel everything she’d built, the last thing she needed was this…thing with Lucia.
If only it were just lust. That would have been manageable. But Lucia drew her in with a force Penelope didn’t know how to counter—something elemental and unrelenting that called to her. So, despite it all, Penelope had yielded.
Only to flee. She’d run from Francesca’s mansion, leaving Lucia standing there, open and steady.
Coward.
But what else could she do? And Lucia had let her because of course she would. Lucia would never stand in her way. She’d never ask for anything Penelope didn’t want to give.
That infuriating woman!
During her lunch break, and against her better judgment, she picked up her phone and opened the thread with Lucia.
She traced her thumb over their last two messages: Lucia saying she hoped Penelope had arrived home safely, and Penelope’s answer.
Thanks, I did.
Even with that, she felt lacking.
Knowing better, yet still doing it—she wondered if that should be her new motto—she typed a new message.
I’m sorry for introducing all this confusion.
Penelope closed her eyes and leaned back against her couch.
A minute passed before her phone beeped.
She rolled her lips, trying to ignore her heart picking up its pace when she went back into the thread.
I’m not. Also, there was more confusion before.
Agree to disagree.
With what?
The confusion part. Either way, we probably should keep things professional moving forward.
I wasn’t the one who kissed you.
You kissed me back!
Wow. How old are you? Penelope shook her head; not even her mind was on her side.
A laughing emoji appeared next to her message.
She groaned. You’d think Lucia had a decade on her.
I wouldn’t know how to resist you.
Penelope let out a harsh breath. She really should end the conversation and only speak to Lucia about the Madonna or Valentina moving forward.
You’re not alone in that.
Terrible. This was…just ridiculous.
I wish we’d kissed at my studio. Not that I’m not glad there are no more lies between us, but…
This isn’t a game to me.
I never said it was.
Penelope sighed. Then what are we doing?
Getting to know each other better.
By making out?
We’re not making out now.
She shook her head, lips curving. You know what I mean.
I like you, Penelope Blackwell.
Unblinking, she stared at the message for a moment, unsure how to reply and once more trying to calm her ridiculous heart.
Outside, the soft hum of traffic carried in through the cracked window—life continuing, indifferent to her upheaval.
I like you, too.
Her cheeks warmed, and she was grateful she lived alone, even more so that Lucia couldn’t see her right now.
Even though you shouldn’t?
Apparently, rules don’t apply to you.
I don’t want that.
You don’t want what?
For you to break your own rules. Because of me.
Penelope ground her jaw.
I think that’s precisely why they break.
Three dots. Nothing. Then they were back and lingered, blinking. She wiped her sweaty palms on her pants.
“Come on, already. Don’t write a damn essay!”
Another minute ticked by with nothing but those three dots, and then, finally, a reply. A wall of text:
I was watching a show years ago, was really into it, and there was this couple that everyone was crazy about.
Typical stuff, handsome bad boy with tragic past and closed off woman.
She hates him, he thinks she’s hot and sees her as a challenge.
He pursues her, even though she pretty much says, go kick rocks ONE MILLION DIFFERENT WAYS.
Of course they fall in love, right? And there was this one scene where she says something like, “You broke down all my walls.” People were swooning over it, and all I felt was revulsion.
I get it that we connect differently with different people, and we sometimes feel a kinship that goes beyond what should exist already, given the time you know each other, but I just… I don’t want to break down your walls or have you break your rules, whether I ask for that or not.
Penelope exhaled sharply, then read the entire message again. Her chest tightened.
What do you want, then?
For you to be comfortable enough to open your doors and sit down with me, I guess. For your framework to expand to fit me in. I don’t want to break anything.
“God,” Penelope pressed out and dropped the phone on the coffee table. She bent forward, her face in her hands. Shaking her head, she picked it up again.
I don’t know what to say to that.
You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that. I don’t want you to think this is a game to me.
I gather. And I appreciate that.
But?
She sighed. Who pushed forward into such emotional depth without a second of hesitation, with no fear? Lucia, she supposed.
There is a lot at stake, and you… You’re blurring all lines for me.
Should we press pause? Maybe only interact when it relates to our plans and certain Italian women?
Penelope choked out a laugh.
That would be the smartest thing to do, yes.
But you don’t want that?
No. She closed her eyes.
I don’t either, but maybe it’s a good idea. You know, lower the temperature, get through this business, and then maybe see where we stand?
What? You think it’s all the danger and excitement that draws us to each other?
No. I never said that. You are…confusing. On one hand, you say you don’t want this and try to push me away, but then you protest when I suggest taking a step back.
You’re right. I apologize. I’m usually not this indecisive. Penelope worried at her lower lip. As I said, you’re different. A variable I cannot account for, and it messes with my head. But that’s not a bad thing! I mean, it sounds like it but… It’s not like I want you to leave.
“Oh my God, Pen! You’re pathetic!” Her shout startled Fuller. “Oh, sorry, baby.” She petted her. “Your human is an idiot.”
Is that your way of saying I’m irresistible?
Penelope rubbed her face. You’re something, all right.
Another laughing emoji from Lucia followed.
Can I confess something? Be aware, this confession does not fall into the realm of cooling things down.
Penelope stared at the text, once again torn between what she wanted and what she knew was smart. The additional problem? How to resist learning a confession from the person who… Someone she wanted to know inside and out?
Yes.
She closed her eyes, kept them closed when her phone vibrated a moment later. Penelope took a deep breath, only for all air to leave her body when she read Lucia’s reply.
I dreamed about you, and in my dream, we kissed at my studio, and when we went into the bedroom, it wasn’t to talk.
Penelope read the message again. Her mind offered no rational defense, only heat.
Damn it. Just…damn it.
The room felt ten degrees hotter, the afternoon sun now cutting harsh slants across the hardwood floor.
She resisted the urge to fling open the fridge and bury her face inside.
Instead, she got up, refilled her mug, and took a measured sip. If she didn’t do something useful soon, she’d combust.